Pretext for Tragedy
by Something Less Than Epic
Summary: A young writer and reporter finds himself on the trail of vengeance itself. Sequal to 'Orphans'.
1. Pretext for Tragedy, Chapter 1

"Hey! Drink boy! Fill 'er up!" A thick, rounded mug wagged in the air, annoying greatly the one to whom it was addressed.  
  
"Oh, I hope Sin eats your face, Donebert." With a casual flap of the hand the 'drink boy' dismissed his elder in the newspaper business, Olge Donebert, and continued perusing his book. It was a tome on the hierarchical structure of the Yevon faith, one that the lad had been given the duty of reporting on.  
  
His name was Maximilian Letouchas – generally known as Max – and he stood proudly as a born and bred Lucanite. A rather scraggly young man of the burgeoning age of twenty-one, Max was fresh, dynamic, outgoing, and, to his own senses, woefully underused at the Luca Weekly Gazette. He had joined up at the newspaper nearly a year ago to the day, and had yet to be given even a single story worthy of note: his most recent report on Yevon was only one of a string of dreadfully dull assignments laid on by the occasionally tyrannical Donebert, head officer of the whole business.  
  
The same Donebert who, having knocked his young protégé over the head with his mug, now poured for himself a fresh batch of Shoopuf milk. The gigantic animals were useful for more than just transportation, and that which flowed forth from their udders – a little oddly placed near the ankle though they were – served up as a rather tasty, if somewhat rich, beverage.  
  
It was all they could afford at the Gazette, really. The paper had recently fallen on hard times, and Max couldn't much blame them for it, either: the Bevelle Browser, a highly syndicated news forum, had begun to branch out into other cities, establishing a wide monopoly on the industry that had managed to put a great deal of other companies on the ropes. As such, the Gazette had little to report on, for the Spiran news net played on the rather annoying terms of first come, first serve. And the Browser, sadly, managed to get its people on the spot with a speed that made other companies reel in revulsion.  
  
And so, the rookies – yes, even a year of experience still left one in the dust as a rookie – were relegated to the dregs. In other words, book reviews. Max had reviewed three dreadfully terrible books over the last month: the first a thesis on whether or not Fiends breed, the second a collection of essays regarding the geography of Spira – who writes essays about hills, Max despaired – and the third, a very in-depth look at why warrior monks were given the equal spot of, say, a local reverend in the hierarchy of Yevon. Snore, snore, snore.  
  
It was this book that he was currently focussed upon, eyes slowly drowsing over and collapsing in on themselves. As his vision lured, Max reflected on the unfairness of it all: why the devil were the senior correspondents all sent out on assignment when each and every one of them was rotund, lazy, and despised the light of day? No wonder their paper did so poorly. After all, their last headliner had been 'Luca Goer Vizzi Vandros Seen Urinating In Back Alley: Is the Luca Spirit Draining Away With It?': such a ridiculous line being given the top spot at what had once been the most renowned newspaper in Luca only filled a person with utter resignation.  
  
Max dropped his book and sighed. "Hey, Donebert!"  
  
The boss man looked up from his curved, oaken desk, where he'd been half reading a report and half daydreaming about woman with large busts, all while sipping his milk. "What is it, drink boy?"  
  
"When you gonna throw me a damned bone, big man? I'm sick of this office all of the time. The quill is cramping up my hand, ya?"  
  
"Maybe when you show me the respect I'm due, kid. Or when you stop usin' that stupid accent just to bug me. You know I hate it." Donebert had been born in Besaid, a fact that seldom filled him with a sense of pride: Besaid, quite frankly, was known both for its crappy blitzball team, and the lower-than-average intellect of its citizens. Max suspected that was just a stupid stereotype that had worked its way into the mainstream; nevertheless, he happened to like it. Plus saying 'ya' all the time was kind of fun.  
  
Philias Squire, an aged reporter who had barely left his desk in the last ten years for a story, wagged a finger at them both. "You children, you don't know how to talk properly. Where is your sense of civic pride? Be proud Yevonites." He bowed deeply at the mention of Yevon.  
  
Donebert merely rolled his eyes. "Yes, Philias." Despite being the boss of the paper, Donebert knew better than to argue with the senile old man. Philias was the editor, and despite his nit-picky shortcomings, the old man could spot a typo from miles away. He also seemed to know the standard layout of each edition by heart, something that no other person at the paper could boast, which was a sad fact seeing as how they put the newspaper together fifty-one times a year.  
  
The general humdrum of the relatively barren office resumed, with little to no work being done. Donebert read, and dreamed: Philias quietly settled down for a nap: and Max, wishing he'd become a waiter or a blitzballer or a Shoopuf driver or something else more exciting than this, closed his book and began to doodle.  
  
And he doodled for the better part of an hour before Herbert Ronygan, the resident 'sniffer-outer' of stories, burst in through the door, looking as though he were ready to burst with excitement.  
  
"We got a hot one, guys!"  
  
---  
  
Once the various workers had drawn themselves slowly from their comas and gathered around the breathless Herbert, he described the situation: he had just come back from meeting with a dock working friend of his, who had informed Herbert that a big story was brewing out on a small island, a few hundred kilometres off the coast of Luca. The worker couldn't give all the details – he didn't really know them all, himself – but what he did know was that it was a huge story in the making, and the Browser hadn't so much as a clue of its existence.  
  
Which meant, of course, that first come, first serve.  
  
Donebert was ecstatic. "Nice one, Herb. Perfect. Couldn't have had better timing on this one." Rubbing his knuckles together in anticipation, he observed the gathered crowd of reporters. "Somil, you're on it. Catch the next boat out there."  
  
Somil, an emaciated old man whose bones cracked whenever he moved, declined quickly. "Sorry, sir, but my healer told me to avoid sea air. . . it makes me wretch. . ."  
  
Donebert frowned. "Uhh. . . okay, Diltchy."  
  
Diltchy was, unlike most of the others, middle-aged; however, he had the weakest stomach of the lot, and turned down the offer on account of waves rocking against the boat. "I'd wretch too, sir. Sorry."  
  
". . . Ramsey?"  
  
"Tendonitis."  
  
"Arklay?"  
  
"I have a fear of islands."  
  
"Bremer?"  
  
"I have bad, bad indigestion right now, sir."  
  
"But it'd be gone by the time you were on the boat. . ."  
  
"N-nah, this'll be lingering, I think."  
  
Max nearly dislocated his shoulder, so vigorously did he wave. Donebert simply ignored him. "Good god, don't tell me not a one of you will go. What kind of useless idiots have I hired?"  
  
Bremer interjected with an ill-placed "we've all been here longer than you, boss", which earned him a whack from Donebert's mug.  
  
"Why don't you go, sir?" Ramsey offered.  
  
Donebert paled slightly. "Uh, no, I'm needed here. The boss doesn't go in the field."  
  
Bullshit, you lazy old man, Max thought to himself. Not that it mattered: they needed the story, and if nobody else would go. . .!  
  
Donebert sagged. His eyes travelled across the whole sorry lot – strategically leaping over Max to focus briefly on an over-hanging clock – and, rolling back into place with somewhat exasperated resignation, came to a rest on the enthusiastic lad.  
  
"Ugh, fine. Max?"  
  
Max's whoop of joy could be heard out on the street, startling a battle- ready Ronso who nearly decapitated a nearby chicken with his axe, and who was soon arrested by the local militia.  
  
---  
  
Scant hours later, with strict orders to jot down every detail and to make sure that the Browsers keep their grubby hands off should they turn up, Max found himself on the seas. The cool, brisk air sailed through his dirty blonde hair, curly since birth and destined to stay that way his whole life. Ahh, this was the life, he thought.  
  
Or, it would have been, had the damned Gazette scrimped for some better tickets. Much to his dismay, Max had been plopped on a fishing boat that would drop him off on the island as it made its rounds. He hung in utter dismay over the lip of the boat, staring off blankly across the ocean, his nose ruing the smell of rotten fish. Even for a fishing boat, the damned thing was bottom-of-the-barrel cheap.  
  
("It's the only thing we could get. Get your ass out there, kid." Donebert had insisted gruffly. A "Sure thing, ya?" in reply earned Max a hard cuff to his head with Donebert's trademark mug.)  
  
Stuffed deep into one of his deep, baggy pockets – Max believed in comfort over style, and as such, looked rather poor most of the time, which wasn't far from the truth – was enough money to get him back again. He'd be stuck for a week on the island, waiting for the bi-monthly boat to arrive and ferry him back, where he'd scramble back via Chocobo to Luca, story in hand.  
  
And yet, he had no idea what the story was going to be. Hell, a new breed of beetle or something stupid like that could be the 'big scoop' Herbert had brought in, with no relevance whatsoever to the news at large.  
  
Somehow, though, he didn't think so. Herbert had been in the business for years, and Max had heard wind of many of the stories he'd broken – a record that had earned him the nickname 'Old Reliable'. If Herbert was in such a tizzy, it had to be an item of at least marginal use.  
  
"Ahh, with my luck, all the damned villagers blew themselves up, or something. Mass conniption fit."  
  
But he didn't think so.  
  
A school of large, amply jawed fish began to leap alongside the hull of the boat, a sight that drove the fishermen to lug out their reinforced steel nets and begin casting them out at a furious rate.  
  
No, he didn't think so at all.  
  
---  
  
A few days later, Max, a little sick from the fare he had been supplied with on the boat – he swore never to eat another fish with teeth larger than his again – found the boat pulling in alongside a small, ramshackle dock. Hefting his leathern suitcase onto the dock with a loud thud and a slight crack, he thanked the captain, and stepped carefully down a thin ramp onto the worn wooden planks.  
  
The captain saluted him once before pulling his ship out of the bay for good. "Welcome to Haliki, lad, Yevon capital of the ocean. Have a fun stay, and make it a good story, ya?" 


	2. Pretext for Tragedy, Chapter 2

If Max could sum up his first impressions of Haliki island in one word, he would have put 'dull' to use. 'Dreadfully', had a second phrase been permitted to the exercise, would have been included as a precursor to 'dull'. As he watched the dinged up old fishing boat that had transported him pulled slowly away from the shoreline, a lump of sinking metal began to materialize in his stomach. The dock was deserted. Not a single person greeted his arrival, nor were there signs that anybody had put it to use in quite a while.  
  
Looking back at the beaten, dusty path that presumably led towards town, Max thought to himself, "What in Spira have I gotten myself into now?" Sighing, he hefted his suitcase over his shoulder – it was a truly unique suitcase in that he had done away with the handle and attached a strap instead – and started treading his way up that same dusty path.  
  
Though dull, it seemed like a nice place: the perfect spot for retirement. The entire island seemed absolutely free of Fiends. The jungle which surrounded him could hardly be called forbidding, either: the tress, though numerous, were parted in such a way that a jaunt through the brush was hardly uncalled for. Despite it all, however, Haliki did not strike Max as the kind of place a young man like himself would thrive in. Dull, dull, dull.  
  
That dullness managed to dispel itself as he approached town. Perhaps half a kilometre from the outskirts, Max suddenly found himself amidst a fairly large group of armoured and armed individuals, few of whom looked particularly pleased that Max had popped up.  
  
One garbed in red rather than the standard green approached him. "Halt, right there. What's your business here?"  
  
Max, ever prepared and seldom flustered, snagged his Gazette VIP badge from out of his pocket. "Reporter from the Lucan Gazette, sit. I'm here to check up on the situation that's occurring on this island."  
  
The soldier pursed his lips and frowned, sliding his rather long broadsword neatly and firmly into the dirt. "Reporter? There's nothing to report about here, son. Move along."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Max was hardly one to be dissuaded. Not when he was so close. "Then what's with the stony reception, eh? I heard about this place on my way here, from a bunch of sailors: it's supposed to be a really nice little Yevonite community, full of peaceful, pious old people. Not soldiers."  
  
The soldier remained adamant. "Just a routine patrol, kid. Warrior monk affairs. Nothing huge."  
  
"Oh yeah? That's good. Then you won't mind if I go in the town, right?"  
  
This drew a deep silence. "C'mon, man, open it up to me. If there'r monks here then it must be something big, and if it's big, then the people need to know."  
  
The monk looked around at the other soldiers. Some avoided his gaze; others merely shrugged. None of them offered their superior any help. He sighed.  
  
"Ugh, fine. . . listen up, though, kid: no touching anything, alright? And I don't want to see any biased bullcrap popping up in your paper when I read it, or we'll be having words. We're just here doing our jobs."  
  
Max grinned jubilantly. "I'll tell it like I see it, my good man."  
  
The soldier grimaced. "Yeah, well, you won't be so happy when you see what we're doing here. I guess it's probably for the best that people on the mainland find out what's goin' on, though."  
  
---  
  
Max could have embellished the truth. He could have coated it over finely, with his fine phrasing and knack for the rhetorical: he was a damned fine writer, and although he didn't know as much, that was the reason why Donebert often relegated his place to the office.  
  
"The kid makes words just plain work. It's some kind of gift he has. Only problem is he's not much in the manners' department, and a reporter needs to keep it cool in order to get the info they need. They need to insist, yeah, but they gotta do it politely." In short, Max lacked the social graces needed to be a successful reporter. Or by Donebert's standards, anyway.  
  
So he could have embellished. He could have glossed over what he saw with every nicety he could muster. But the plain fact of the matter, as he would later write, was that each and every last person in the small religious community was dead.  
  
No, strike that: they were butchered. The town was now a bloody wasteland. Most of the buildings had been destroyed or at least scorched by a now extinguished fire. It was a miracle that it had not spread to the trees and set the entire island aflame. The walls, the grass, and even the small fountain in the centre of town, all of them sported a wide range of bloody stains, from tiny blots to huge, voluminous splashes. Several times as he walked through the town with the soldier in red, max noticed monks scratching the blood from the walls with their gloved fingers, as though entranced by the sheer amount of gore they saw. Often, too, this spellbound state would snap, with the spontaneity of a bursting soap bubble, and the soldier would run off into the trees, remove his helmet, and wretch violently.  
  
Because it was not only blood. There were bodies, too. Oh, were there ever bodies.  
  
They were strewn everywhere. Some were flung over walls, as though tossed by an incredible force: others simply lay prone on the ground, mouths wide in chilling horror. A few were heaped at the entrance to their tiny huts, as though the fire had overcome them before they could fully escape. Three, apparently, had nearly escaped the town limits before whatever had done this caught them, and pierced them on the large, iron gates that had once greeted every visitor to the town. Max had vomited at these three, for one of them was a little girl that looked to be no older than ten.  
  
And these bodies were mutilated. Many of them sported wide, ripping gashes, running down their sides and gushing forth unmentionable objects that had dried in the glazing sunlight. A few were charred from blazes long gone. Several were devoid of body parts, most of which could be found several feet away. The entire town smelt absolutely horrendous. Max fainted on his first tour through it, and had to be carried to a nearby first-aid tent for resuscitation.  
  
Propped up on a cot, facing the soldier in red – who had now removed his helmet, revealing a man in his mid-thirties with shortly-cropped brown hair and sad grey eyes – Max quickly choked down a proffered canteen of water, and spewed it out across the tent as memories of the sights he'd seen came flashing back.  
  
The soldier steadied him. "Whoa, easy there, kid. Not too fast."  
  
Max gasped. "Dear Yevon. . . what the hell happened to them all. . ."  
  
The soldier shrugged with a sort of frustrated nonchalance. "No clue. All we know is that most of it was done with a sword, and some of it with really, really strong fire magic." He sighed and plunked himself down on the bottom of the tent, a metallic clank reverberating throughout the interior of it. "This isn't the worst of it, either. There's one house we checked, and the guy in there. . ." He shuddered, seemingly unable to continue. "Well, he's not much of a guy anymore. Could only tell he was in the first place by the fact that his. . . genitalia, were hanging from the ceiling."  
  
Max's eyes bulged. He thought he might vomit again. "Holy. . . this is. . ."  
  
"A bit much, I know. When we first got here, a few days ago, it was worse. Everything was still a bit more fresh." The soldier licked his lips. "Frankly, we're a bit edgy about moving the bodies. This is more than we ever bargained for."  
  
"You're not kidding me," Max replied, slowly gaining a tiny modicum of control over himself. "Did anybody survive? Anybody at all? And have you sent any of them yet?"  
  
The soldier seemed slightly more upbeat at this. "Yeah, we sent 'em. One of the first things we did was call in a Summoner. I bet you can imagine how much trouble he had doing it, the poor guy. But, anyway, yeah, we think there's one more survivor, but we're not really sure about that."  
  
Max gazed at him in confusion. "Wha? How's that work?"  
  
"Well, so far as we can tell, there's a small cottage out in the woods: problem is, it looks like there's a magical barrier set up around it. You can go in, but, can't come back out again. We've sent for an expert in this crap to get rid of it for us, but he's still a week in coming." He gazed outside the tent, watching his men as they continued to prod about the ruins, avoiding bodies as much as possible. "Frankly, kid, I doubt that anybody in that thing has a clue of what happened out here. Once you're in a barrier, you can't really get out, or so I'm told: but, hell, maybe whoever's in there can give us a hint or something."  
  
Max's mind began to percolate at this. "You say you can go in, but not back out, right?"  
  
"Yeah. That's why I haven't sent any soldiers in yet: dunno what we'll find. Hell, for all I know, the murderer could be in there, and we wouldn't know it. Barrier spells are usually set up for a reason." He cocked a wary eyebrow, eyes studying Max. "Kid, you're not thinking of. . ."  
  
Max gulped. "Well, I don't think I'll be able to report on what's out here. I. . . I can't look at it, frankly. It's too much. I've seen enough anyway. But, if there's somebody in there, maybe I could get an exclusive, or something. . .?" He shrugged weakly.  
  
The soldier gazed at Max in dismay. "I don't think that's a good idea. You have no clue what's in there. Like I said, what if whatever did this is in there? You'd be stuck with it."  
  
Max closed his eyes. "Yeah, I know. But news is news."  
  
---  
  
Max could see the glowing luminescence of the barrier peeping through the trees, throwing forth a faint mist that hypnotically pulled in the eye for a closer inspection. Walking alongside the soldier – whose name Max now knew to be Alan – he squinted, trying to see beyond the barrier. In the faint distance, a cottage was waveringly visible, though any detail of it was lost in the strange green light.  
  
Alan took one look at it and shivered. "Damn bizarre. I've never liked magic, personally." He placed a hand of caution on the young reporter's shoulder. "You positive, kid?"  
  
"It's Max. Get it right by the next time I see you." Was all that Max replied with, a slight smirk playing over his face. Alan couldn't help but laugh despite the situation.  
  
"Fine, fine. You get back out here in one piece, you hear? If I find out a week from now that you got split in half or something, I'll be tempted to just let you turn into a fiend."  
  
Max grimaced at the thought, totally sobered. "Yeah."  
  
They approached the barrier, skirting the edge of it by mere feet. Alan scratched his unshaven chin absentmindedly. "If I've been told right, you really have to push hard to get in. Sort of a safety device to make sure outsiders don't go wandering in without noticing."  
  
Max nodded. Tentatively, as though the barrier might scald him, he ran his fingers across the smooth, misty surface of it. The barrier felt of solid and liquid simultaneously, nearly throwing Max's senses into a bewildered overdrive. In spite of his confusion, however, he pushed harder, and gradually, his hands sunk into the bizarre surface. His body, perhaps elated by his success – or not wanting to be suddenly separated from the hands via less than pleasant means – plunged in soon after.  
  
Max felt as though he was being bodily thrown as soon as he passed within the barrier. A thousand angry, invisible hands pushed him several feet into the brush, and Max landed face-first in a large, twiggy bush. He cursed violently and rolled back onto the path, wiping leafs out of his face and gradually gazing back at the barrier.  
  
It had become a solid wall of abnormal green, slicing trees in half and yet keeping them whole. Nothing beyond it – not Alan, not the forest, not a single thing – was visible. He didn't even have to inspect it closely to know that he was stuck until help came.  
  
"On to business then, I guess," Max murmured, and rose, brushing himself off. His eyes travelled towards the nearby cottage. No longer eclipsed by misty green, he saw it in the full light of day: it had become rather dilapidated, collapsing on one side. The front door had been replaced by a large, ungainly plank of wood, hanging lamely off rusted hinges and ready to drop off at a moment's notice. Both of the windows in the front were boarded up. The porch sported rotting boards, and several holes. Surprisingly enough, the roof looked largely intact.  
  
Max approached it with the utmost degree of caution. His suitcase hung lamely from his shoulder, and he brushed it aside with mild annoyance. His feet, slow and wary, carried him towards the house, ready to run should danger present itself. But. . . run to where? The barrier kept him inside. No level of prudence would assure Max's safety.  
  
Yet he couldn't help himself. The going was slow, no matter how he rationalized the issue. And even when the old man appeared at the door, waving Max forward with a grim lack of worry, the young man still took a good five minutes to get himself planted on the porch.  
  
He was a wizened old figure, with hardly a straight part to his frame: Max was certain he'd never seen a more crooked back, or more knobbly knees. His greyed flesh hung in sagging droops off of his bones, giving the man an appearance that could not have been less threatening. And his voice, that poor, broken, accented voice, could not have sounded less old had it tried. It was with this voice that he called out to Max from the aged porch.  
  
"Don't worry about making it fast, lad, I'm sure you're a wee bit frightened of the whole situation. I've been here for thirteen years now; old O'aka can stand to wait a minute or two more." 


	3. Pretext for Tragedy, Chapter 3

Max studied O'aka. O'aka, in a far less cautious manner, did the same for Max. Whereas Max was eyeing the old man as a potential threat, O'aka had already dismissed Max as a scared curiosity. He closed his heavily lidded eyes and turned back into the house.  
  
"When you're ready to follow me, lad, feel free. I'll be in the den."  
  
Max watched his receding back carefully, and only managed to snap out of his coiled snake state of alert when the worn wooden plank flapped shut. Immediately, Max gasped, as though his mind had just caught up with the situation, and he fled behind a tree.  
  
Common sense and animal instincts warred. "He's an old man, you wuss." "He killed all those people, he's a monster." "You have no idea if he did or not." "Shut up, your gut is never wrong." "Wanna bet?" Throughout the battle, Max sat a silent witness, watching both sides of the argument while simultaneously crouching warily behind his tall sycamore.  
  
Eventually, plain intelligence emerged the victor, and Max abolished both voices back into the recesses of his brain. What kind of a fool was he? He'd steeled himself to facing whatever was in the barrier, and now that he'd found an old man, he was hiding behind a tree in terror. Wuss, wuss, wuss.  
  
He emerged from behind the tall, leafy branches. And crept, ever so slowly, towards the house, as though a single misstep would set off the apocalypse.  
  
---  
  
The interior of the house was little better than the outside. Most of the furniture looked old, and split in many places. The floorboards stuck up at odd angles in several places. A few rusty nails, ready to bring their dirty edges into contact with living flesh at a moment's mistake, had been cordoned off with sticks. The whole place was covered with the unmistakable look of grime.  
  
"You'd be amazed how quickly a place goes to hell after thirteen years, m'boy." O'aka emerged from the kitchen – perhaps one of the few places he still made a concerted effort to keep clean – and handed Max a small, poorly moulded cup with what looked like murky water in it. "Sorry 'bout the mess. And the water. All I can do is boil the hell out of the seawater and hope for the best." He took a small swig from his own cup, coughed, and frowned. "Still tastes nasty, though."  
  
Max had still yet to utter a word. O'aka picked up on this quickly. "Well, come on, lad, speak up. I'm old, but I still have bloody ears, in case you hadn't noticed. What's your name? Sit down, sit down." He motioned to a very worn, rather stiff couch.  
  
"Uhh, Maximilian. Maximilian Letouchas. Reporter for the Lucan Weekly Gazette." Sitting down carefully on the couch, so as not to break it, he took a cursory taste of his water and decided to forego having any more during the duration of his stay.  
  
"Reporter. . . you look a little young for that game, lad. Way too bloody young. Or is it your first assignment?" O'aka had settled down in a dilapidated rocker that looked about ready for its last rock.  
  
"First, I guess. I've written quite a few pieces. Guess you wouldn't have read any though, eh?" Max coughed weakly at his joke.  
  
O'aka hacked out a few laughs at this. "Ha! Too true, my boy, too true. Wait, I haven't introduced my own humble self, have I? O'aka the XVII, merchant extraordinaire. My reputation is so expansive, in fact," O'aka added with a slight sneer, "that not a single person seemed to notice that I'd fallen out of contact for a good thirteen years. Ahh, the burdens of fame." His eyes fluttered weakly.  
  
Max decided to be forward with the old man, as O'aka seemed fully possessed of all his mental faculties, and had no troubles in speaking. "Why are you stuck in here, anyway? You piss somebody off and they pen you in?"  
  
O'aka's eyes died just a little more at that moment. His whole framed seemed heavier, as though the spirit of his body could scarcely support the flesh any longer. But his voice came out strong nonetheless. "You could say that, lad. But I'd be getting ahead of myself if I told you right now. I have a bloody good sneaking suspicion that I know what you're here for, after all."  
  
Max shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortable. "How could you, you've been stuc-"  
  
"Yes, I've been stuck. For thirteen years, I've been in this damned magical box. But I was brought up to speed recently, by. . ." –his eyes flicked back and forth nervously – "a certain individual." He emptied his cup with a mighty heave. "I can tell you everything, lad, because I know exactly what's goin' on now."  
  
Max leaned forward in interest. He broke out a quill and a scroll, ready to jot down notes, but O'aka waved him off.  
  
"No, lad, no writing. You won't have to. This is a story you aren't liable to forget." O'aka's head drooped significantly, a terrible burden clearly weighing him down. "I know I can't."  
  
Max was clearly affected. He shivered at the old man's appearance. That body, those eyes – it was a man without hope, without a passion of living. His writing equipment disappeared as quickly as it had emerged.  
  
O'aka, knowing that Max wasn't likely to finish his drink, motioned wordlessly for the cup. Max handed it over, his hand trembling ever so slightly. With another mighty gulp, O'aka downed it all, furrowed his forehead in concentration, and began, pain clear in his voice.  
  
"It all started, my boy, thirteen years ago, when a pair of twins washed up near my cabin."  
  
---  
  
A boy and a girl, five and eight respectively: perfectly matched in appearance, right down to their birch bark hued locks and gleaming green eyes. Those eyes were swirling, and you know what that means – Al Bhed.  
  
From what I managed to gather, they'd been on some kinda trip with their folks – vacation, I guess – when Sin attacked their boat in the middle of the ocean. Their folks managed to get them on a life raft before the whole ship went down. I'm guessin' nobody else survived it, not that I ever caught wind of anything suggestin' there was.  
  
Well, as you probably know by now, this place was a Yevonite paradise. Absolute fanatics, the whole lot. Those twins were bloody lucky, I guess, that I found them, or they wouldn't have had a chance from the start. Either way, after a lot of debate, I let 'em stay. Couldn't let any of the Yevonites catch wind of 'em, or, y'know. Bloody mess for the lot of us.  
  
The little girl's name was Celina. Brightest little angel I'd ever seen, I swear. A little rambunctious at times, but, her smile could turn you into the happiest man alive in an instant. Such a beaming creature. She was, by the end, m-my granddaughter. I swear.  
  
The boy was Mahri. Really withdrawn, intelligent fellow. He used to sit and watch me cook. Seldom spoke so much as a word, but I didn't mind: I could tell he loved his sister, which was enough for me. He had a. . . bit of a dark side, too. You could see it in his eyes, sometimes, even if he didn't talk much.  
  
Anyway. My home became their home. I showed them how to cook, how to speak a bit of English, how to fish. . . I told them lots of stories, in the evenings, when they couldn't sleep. . . well, Celina, anyway: Mahri always collapsed like a log. . . sorry, I'm getting' off track here. Needless to say, they were around for a good six weeks.  
  
One of my rules had been for the twins to avoid all contact with the islanders no matter what. Well, little Celina, bless her, heart, broke that rule, one day. . . she found a little boy in the jungle, and, well, he figured out she was Al Bhed, and went running. . . and he told his father, the Preacher, what he'd found.  
  
Preacher was a real son of a bitch. Totally, blindly obedient to Yevon. Anything that fell outside of it, twins included, was to be rid of. So he came. He brought the whole town into my cottage. Lucky for me, Celina had brought news ahead of time, and I hid the kids away. . . problem is, Celina decided to protect me, and. . . the both of 'em came running out. . . and P- P-Preacher. . . carted 'em both off, and I never s-s-aw little Celina again. . .  
  
---  
  
"He must've known some magic users, too, 'cause Preacher had that damned barrier put up around me, to 'punish' my heretical self. I guess. Either way, after a month of scheming up ways to escape, I realized there wasn't one. And that the twins were. . . probably dead, anyway."  
  
O'aka had travelled through a wide range of emotions as he'd told his story. Simply factual at first; sadly beaming, at the description of the twins; and utterly anguished as he related the final nabbing of Celina and Mahri by the vengeful Halikan mob. Now, he bowed his head into his lap, and began to cry.  
  
Max, however, had his analytical brain working in high gear. Something wasn't right with the old man's story. Something didn't fit.  
  
"You never saw Celina again, but what about Mahri?"  
  
The shiver that wracked the old man was highly visible, and through his sobbing came a choked, fearful response, very soft and rather forced. "Oh. . . I saw him again. . ."  
  
Max sat back on the couch. "He told you about it all, didn't he. Just recently."  
  
O'aka, after an extended period in which he managed to reign in the tears, nodded slowly. "Yes. He came in the barrier. . . and left, just as easily as he came. My first visitor in thirteen long years."  
  
Max was somewhat puzzled. If the citizens of the island had been as fanatical as claimed, then why had the boy been spared? Looking at O'aka, however, he figured the question would come naturally as the old man finished his tale. "What did he tell you?"  
  
"Everything," O'aka whispered hoarsely. "He told me everything."  
  
---  
  
The Preacher, after thirteen years of relative relaxation and devoted piety, had grown considerably in girth. While once merely enormous, he was now enormous and swathed in fat: his physical schedule had been in steady decline for several years, and though he still moved about freely on his own legs, the years were taking a toll on him.  
He was still the same old Preacher, however – he gave weekly sermons, visited those who did not attend with strict admonitions, and delivered his message with a beaming face and an open heart. Same old Preacher.  
  
Things had changed in his family, however. His wife had departed several years prior, during a particularly bad storm in which she was buried under a friends' collapsed hut. The Preacher had not bewailed his wife, however, claiming her to have gone to a much better place than Spira, having been freed of her physical restraints so she could proceed onto the Farplane. A highly recommended Summoner, straight from Bevelle, made her trip a pleasant one.  
  
The son of the family, Pahlist – the very same Pahlist who had revealed Celina's existence years before - had left for the mainland almost two and a half years ago, his heart set on becoming a monk for the temple at D'Jose. The Preacher had been duly proud of his son and his accomplishments, if a little disappointed that he would not quite be following in his father's footsteps.  
  
However, devotion to Yevon was all that one needed to achieve success in life: so long as Pahlist kept to the teachings, his father would be content.  
  
So long as Pahlist kept in contact, of course: that was a staple in good familial relations. Which he had not. The Preacher could hardly be expected to search out his son, either, for his work was in the village, and nothing would persuade him otherwise.  
  
Which was why, on a hot summer day, when a surprise boat arrived with a package for the Preacher, sent from his son Pahlist, the Preacher was absolutely delighted, and decided to call a town gathering. His son had not failed! Especially considering the weight of the package: it was a hefty box, and inside, something large seemed to roll about constantly as Preacher moved it about.  
  
He confided to a close friend, before the whole town had assembled, that it must have been something of great worth. A magical sphere for his father's study, perhaps, or a bust of some famous Summoner. Preacher treated it with the utmost care, inspecting every nook and cranny of the wooden box as villagers slowly sifted in to witness the spectacle.  
  
"People of Haliki!" Preacher announced majestically, standing upon his "podium" – which was actually just a large rock near the middle of town – and spreading his arms to engulf everyone in his joy. "I bring good tidings! My dear son, Pahlist, has finally made contact! Indeed, it seems the dear boy has sent his father a gift!"  
  
This drew a gentle, controlled applause, full of warmth: just about everybody in the town remembered Pahlist, with his timid and repentant nature. A born Yevonite. "Open it up! Let's see what little Pahlist has garnered for his old man!"  
  
The Preacher wagged a finger at the man in mock reprisal. "Citizen Jellick, speak properly! After all, this is a solemn occasion, is it not?" The giant grin on Preacher's face told otherwise, of course. This drew laughter from the assembled as Jellick bowed formally in apology.  
  
Preacher patted his belly and smiled, teeth gleaming as they ever had. "Right, lets not leave us all in suspense. . . I hope he didn't spend too much, Yevon forbid, for we must all practice monetary restraint."  
  
Everybody watched as the Preacher, his eyes glimmering with the slightest intonation of greed, carefully unwrapped the package, sliding open the tiny wooden latch and swinging the top of it open.  
  
The Preacher took one look inside and immediately dropped the box. The powerful smell, combined with the grizzly sight of his 'gift', overpowered his senses. With a loud clatter it bounced off the base of the rock and flew onto the grass: Pahlist's head, quite without a body, lips pulled back in a scream forever silent, flew forth from its confines and landed at the feet of the onlookers. It was partially decayed, partially eaten, and wholly disgusting. Perhaps on cue, too, a slew of horrid insects began to parade out, fleeing from behind mouldy, yellowed teeth and escaping into the grass.  
  
Nobody – for not a single soul, not even the Preacher, would dare to pick it up – noticed the tiny placard, affixed to the inside of the box, which read as follows in large, regal letters:  
  
You're next, holy man. 


	4. Pretext for Tragedy, Chapter 4

"Mahri."  
  
"Yes, Mahri." O'aka couldn't even look Max in the eyes as he told his story. "I have no idea how he managed it, but Mahri tracked Pahlist down and decapitated him." O'aka took a deep breath, seeming to take a long drag on the air as though it were a cigar. "You should have seen the look in his eyes as he told me. It was frightening."  
  
"The look of insanity?" Max could think of nothing else that would fill the eyes of so brutal a murderer.  
  
"No." O'aka collapsed into his hands, muffling his voice. "No, it was the complete opposite. It was like doing that was his bloody mission. His duty. I. . . he wasn't insane, he was totally sane when he told me. I could see it in his eyes."  
  
Max was silent. How was one supposed to respond to that? Eventually going with his gut, he pressed O'aka to continue.  
  
---  
  
The village was in an utter uproar that day. People dashed about in a frenzy, taking absolute care not to go anywhere near the head, or the tiny wooden coffin in which it had been conveyed.  
  
Preacher locked himself in his house, completely dumbfounded. The sight of his only son's head in a box had disturbed him beyond rational thought. He refused to speak to anyone, preferring silent, constant prayer in front of a Yevonite sculpture he kept in his bedroom.  
  
The people were terrified. What to do? There would be no boat to the mainland for a few more weeks. The news would not get out until then, and no protection for their little community could be given. Certainly not by themselves, either: were they not a peaceful people, unused to war? If the murderer decided to come calling, they would all be vulnerable to attack.  
  
A nightly watch was set up for any individuals, right at the gates to town. People would rotate on an hourly basis until the town decided it was safe to step down. Several crude weapons – generally around-the-house tools, like cooking knives and the like – were made available for all to use. They all tried to ensure that their little religious community would stay safe and sound.  
  
Their big problem, however, was that they did not anticipate that the killer had arrived with the package. Which he had, hidden amongst various crates for the duration of the trip. He'd paid the captain of the boat extra to keep his mouth shut, and not ask any questions, about his thickly cloaked guest. He simply assumed that the man had arranged a surprise for his family and friends on the island, and did not want word getting out prematurely.  
  
Mahri slipped over the side of the boat and descended deep into the jungles shortly after Preacher had carried the package away. He retained his cloak the whole time, weathering it even through the sweltering heat. The young man – now eighteen years of age – watched through the trees, never faltering in his gaze, as the head bounced out of its box and horrified the people collected around it. With grim satisfaction he watched Preacher's face turn shock white as the big man ran bodily towards his house.  
  
He waited. He waited until the people outside began to barricade themselves in their huts, posting a few inadequately hidden sentries at obvious, simple-minded positions. Devout, yes: strategic, no. He waited until the sun rolled over the horizon and vanished, casting a dark haze over the settlement. He waited, through it all, never flinching, never giving away his position. And, when the stars started to come out, he began to move.  
  
With expert precision Mahri slipped past the sentries. He had no business with them: he wanted their ringleader. He made his way past all the huts, avoiding the bright glare of windows, making himself one with the darkness. All was done in absolute silence and with a fleet foot.  
  
Preacher's house, unlike the rest of the huts, was relatively large, and ornate. He obviously did not strictly adhere to all of his teachings. The door boasted a huge, golden knocker, but Mahri had no use for it.  
  
Instead, he cast his cloak aside and, retrieving an absolutely huge, curved and somewhat unwieldy scimitar from astride his back, simply sliced the door in two. One side of it collapsed on the grass beside Mahri as the other swung lazily from its hinges, squeaking slightly. Mahri stopped its motion with a hand and entered. He didn't care if anybody noticed his handiwork: any aid directed towards the Preacher would call for an instant, gruesome death.  
  
The interior was dark. A few luminescent orbs cast odd hues upon the walls, lighting Mahri's way to the Preacher's bedchamber. He made sure to check the study first, of course – that room, and the other door which lay within it, called up strong, repugnant memories for the young man – but, noticing that the Preacher was not within, swiftly closed the door, and continued to silently tread the house in search of his prey.  
  
And he found him. The door to the Preacher's room was closed, and light poured out from the crack underneath: within, Mahri could hear his muffled prayers, repeated over and over in a shaky voice.  
  
And so Mahri opened the door. And he went in.  
  
And the Preacher, sensing another soul within his room, looked up from his prayers: and there he saw a young man with deeply tanned skin, and fraught with thin, wiry, powerful muscles. He wore baggy, grey pants, rounded off with a belt covered in pouches and small, lethal daggers. His hair, once brown, had long, stunning streaks of white running through it, nearly eliminating its former hue entirely, all but in the roots. It was long and spiky, hanging about in chaotic disarray. On his back was an impossibly long and vicious sword, kept aloft by a strap encircling his chest.  
  
But his most striking feature were those eyes. Green and swirling, they were a pure vortex. A supernova of utter destruction. They wanted the Preacher's soul, those cold, emerald eyes did, burning hotter than the embers of a volcano. Those eyes watched him with the hatred of a man who had nothing more to lose, and who now faces the sower of his discontent.  
  
The Preacher said not a word. Before him stood a demon in the flesh. A demon that, apparently, had escaped him years ago, for he instantly recognized that little boy who had gazed at him with those cold, dead eyes over a decade earlier.  
  
Mahri was behind the Preacher before the older man could even react. The young man was incredibly quick, his skills sharpened after years of unspeakably harsh training and toning. With a swift jerk of the wrist he yanked one of Preacher's arms up behind his back, causing the Preacher to yell out in acute pain. Stars swam before his eyes. He attempted to resist, but the hold prevented him from doing so, for it felt as though he might wrench the arm from its socket. All that aside, the young man seemingly had the strength of a hundred Preachers, especially now in his rage.  
  
"Greetings, Citizen." Were the first words hissed into the Preacher's ears. "I think you remember me, do you not? I should hope so, after what you put my sister and I through. You know, in that special little room of yours, down in the basement. You remember that place, right?"  
  
"Y-you heretical de-"the Preacher began, but Mahri cut him off with a sudden jab to the throat. Preacher wheezed in pain, lungs gasping. His vision had nearly blacked completely.  
  
"No no no, none of that religious jargon you enjoy spouting off at such lengths. It is my turn to speak." Mahri, still gripping the Preacher's arm fiercely, slowly slid a tiny needle from out of his belt, and pressed it against the old man's neck. "What you did, Yevonite, was a very, very bad thing. You should never have dealt so harshly with my sister and I."  
  
The Preacher gurgled. Mahri's expression, wrought in iron seriousness, did not so much as flinch. "I watched all the things you did to her. All the. . . pains, you deigned it necessary to inflict. The experience is what gave me this nice snowy hair of mine. The pure, abject terror you put me through, by making me watch my sister suffer. . . I intend, quite fully, to reap those pains upon you. And to multiply them a thousand fold."  
  
The Preacher's eyes grew large. He began to tremble, still unable to utter so much as a word.  
  
Mahri, releasing his grip and pushing the Preacher to the carpet, turned next to the Yevonite sculpture. It was a rendition of Yevon himself, bowed over in prayer.  
  
"And upon you, false deity. You will also know my wrath." With a flick of his hand, Mahri casually destroyed the statue. Exploding internally, it rained down in fragments upon the frightened Preacher, who, having regained his voice somewhat, began to squirm about and pray under his breath.  
  
"Do not wear yourself out too much, man of Yevon: it will be some hours yet before I let you die."  
  
With that, Mahri descended upon the Preacher.  
  
---  
  
"He told me the... particulars of what he did to the Preacher, but, I don't much want to repeat them. They were utterly abhorrent at the best, rest assured, lad." O'aka's face was ashen and pallid as he described that which Mahri had related to him. "I can't say I much blame Mahri – after all, even though he never told me as such, I get the feeling the Preacher did some awful things to those two – but, really. . . I never thought the boy would turn out so ghastly as this. . ."  
  
Max, his head swimming with questions that O'aka probably could not answer – would that he could find Mahri for an interview! – tried the aged merchant on one he may have known. "I don't get it, though. If he only wanted the Preacher, then why did everybody else end up dying?"  
  
O'aka shook his head at that. "I couldn't tell you, lad. I know for a fact that Mahri didn't tell me everything about what happened. I suspect he and Preacher had a heated conversation before the end. . . and whatever happened in it, it drove Mahri to do exactly what he did. All I know is that, once Mahri finished up with the Preacher, he went out amongst the huts and started slaughtering everyone he found, right left and centre, until there wasn't a soul left." His eyes closed. "I wonder where the lad learned to use magic. He told me he started a mighty large fire with it, along with blowing up that statue in Preacher's house."  
  
Max shook his head in silence. Obviously, he had no answer for that. He decided to address his next concern: Mahri's return to the cabin. O'aka, though clearly pained by it all, was more than willing to broach the subject. Retrieving another mug of water from his kitchen, he began to speak once more.  
  
---  
  
O'aka had been napping peacefully in bed when the knock reverberated through his house. At first, his sleepy mind dismissed it as a dream: however, repeated knocks told the lonely old man that this was not so. His first reaction was confused curiosity: who the devil could be knocking at this hour of the night?  
  
When it finally dawned on him that he'd not had a knock on his door for over thirteen years now, he practically leapt out of bed, rushing forth with a level of stamina that a man of his age had no business in retaining. With a mighty heave he pulled the door open, and, a twig already lit – he kept a torch burning near the entrance at all times, despite the obvious fire hazard, and a pile of branches beside it - O'aka peered at his first visitor since the angry mob that had stripped him of all that made his life good.  
  
What he saw filled O'aka's heart with ice. He gasped, pulling back and dropping his fiery twig. A heavy boot extinguished the flame before it could spread, a boot that was coated in thick layers of blood and dirt. Mahri, breathing hard and covered from head to toe in glistening crimson, stepped through the doorway, and embraced O'aka with a fierce, yet gentle, hug.  
  
O'aka had been utterly flabbergasted, and his surprise steadily grew to horror within scant moments, as Mahri's first words were "I killed them all, grandpa. Every last one." 


	5. Pretext for Tragedy, Chapter 5

"M. . . Mahri. . . that's you, isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah, grandpa. Do you have somewhere I can wash up, perchance?"  
  
"B-Bay water. . . all I have. . ."  
  
"Thanks, grandpa. You're the best. Sorry about the mess I tracked in." Mahri tightened his hug ever so slightly, and vanished again, dripping blood in his wake.  
  
O'aka, mind racing with attempts to explain what had just happened, simply collapsed.  
  
---  
  
After having bathed in the cool, vacant ocean waters – he did not particularly enjoy the salty texture of his skin afterwards, but, he'd gone through enough in his life that a little discomfort hardly mattered at this point – Mahri returned and retrieved his grandfather from the floor, depositing him gently into bed and sliding the old, bedraggled rocker in from the living room. He wanted patiently for some minutes until O'aka revived, and opened his eyes.  
  
"Hiya, grandpa. You feeling any better?" Mahri wiped O'aka's head off with a moist scrap of cloth he'd found lying around, lest the old man had a fever of some sort.  
  
"Y. . . yes, my boy. . . oh, Mahri, you're alive; I always thought you and Celina. . ."  
  
The mention of his sister's name instantly darkened Mahri's features. The raw power that hid behind those swirling eyes began to emerge again. "Only I got out. Celina is quite dead."  
  
O'aka cringed, both at Mahri's rage and the validation of his greatest fear. Indeed, Celina had long since departed from this world. Had he not always known, though? Preacher was a merciless man, after all: being carried off by him surely meant an instant death. And yet. . . and yet. . . he had never been absolutely certain. Up until now. A few tears threatened to gather at the corners of O'aka's eyes. "I see. . . I-I'm sorry, lad."  
  
Mahri's face relaxed a bit, reassuming it's original composure. "Don't worry about it." He rose from the rocker and began to pace a bit. "I have. . . balanced the sheets, as it were. Celina will sleep peacefully from now on."  
  
And then, O'aka remembered. Mahri had entered absolutely drenched in blood, hadn't he? "I killed them all, grandpa. Every last one." Stunned horror began to set in, one that scarcely allowed him to draw breath. "M. . . Mahri. . . you didn't. . ."  
  
"Oh," O'aka's companion whispered, his back to the decrepit man, watching the sea out of a cracked, smeared window, "but I did."  
  
---  
  
Max shuddered. Mahri sounded like a right nut. He had trouble not picturing the younger man with a vicious grin on his face. Yet, as O'aka rambled on, he knew Mahri had not displayed even the slightest bit of emotion when he spoke. Not the slightest bit.  
  
---  
  
Mahri had then proceeded to relate everything to O'aka: his delivery of the head, his hiding in the jungle, his stealthy trek through the village, and, in particular, his cruel torture of the Preacher. All with a businesslike calm that rendered O'aka utterly mute.  
  
His tale complete, Mahri sat upon the floor, legs crossed neatly, watching his grandpa. O'aka had gone white with fear. His mouth opened, as though ready to speak, and then closed. He could not form the words. Perhaps he didn't actually know what to say. Regardless, they sat in silence for a good five minutes before O'aka managed his first, incredulous word.  
  
"W-W-W-Why?"  
  
Mahri's eyes shut slowly. "For my sister. Why else? The Preacher deserved every last pain I inflicted on him, rest assured, grandpa. You would have helped me, had you seen the things I saw those many years ago."  
  
O'aka watched his grandson a moment, all traces of the shy little boy he'd once known wiped away and yet completely present before him simultaneously, and collapsed with a bounce onto his bed. "Bloody hell, Mahri."  
  
"Yes, it was quite bloody."  
  
"Poor, poor joke, lad."  
  
Mahri laughed. It was a surprisingly warm laugh, all things considered. "Sorry, grandpa. But. . . really, it wasn't just Celina they took away from me then. She's not the only reason. I. . ." - and here Mahri sounded a little shy and withdrawn – ". . . I lost you, too."  
  
O'aka was still. He couldn't help but smile mournfully. "You shouldn't have done it, lad."  
  
Mahri rose. "Yes, I knew you'd say that. But. . . it was the only thing I could do. In all my years, I've learned that there's only one real rule in the universe: an eye for an eye. Tit for tat. Nothing will change that rule, grandpa, not in my mind."  
  
O'aka couldn't respond to that. Mahri didn't expect him to, either. They sat in utter silence, yet the room was abuzz with communication, and through it all, O'aka knew.  
  
"You're not done yet, are you?"  
  
Mahri's head drooped. There was a fire in his eyes again, and though O'aka could not see it he knew it to be as fundamentally true as the fact that Mahri was just beginning his campaign of revenge. "No. No, I'm far from done. This – "he waved his hands to encompass the entire island, "– this was just a precursor. It was my first act of atonement on the part of those I killed. You have been avenged, after being stuck in this damnable barrier, just for loving a pair of orphans: and Celina, her death has been atoned for. I made sure of it." He wrung his hands in anguish, the veins on his arms standing out. "But. . . there's so much more. . . I have two more targets, before I am done, grandpa. . ."  
  
---  
  
Max paused. "Two? You mean he's killing two more people? What else bad has happened to him?"  
  
O'aka could not have looked more pale. "Just wait, my boy. Your answer is coming."  
  
---  
  
"Two more. . . because, I must avenge my parents: and who destroyed my parents?"  
  
"Sin." O'aka whispered hoarsely. The boy must have been utterly mad, but he wasn't, and O'aka knew that, too.  
  
"Yes," Mahri hissed, his voice full of venomous hatred, "I'm going to destroy that damned monster. . . I don't care what people say, I'm going to do it."  
  
"But how?" O'aka exclaimed, leaping up. "It's suicide, Mahri! You're just going to get yourself killed! Not even the Summoners can stop Sin for long, and they bloody well give their lives to do it! How the devil can you. . . you. . ." He trailed off, coughing.  
  
"You hit the nail on the head there, grandpa." Mahri was quiet, almost meditative. "The Summoners. They can't kill Sin, but they stop it. And how? What power is it that allows them to do this? A 'Final Aeon'? Something tells me they can do better than that. Far, far better. They're just restricted by their teachings. Their narrow-minded Yevonite doctrines. But I," and this he whispered, as though imparting a divine secret, "I am not restricted as such. There is no rule that says that I cannot kill Sin myself. All I need do. . . is grow powerful. There is always something stronger than yourself. The same can easily be said of Sin. I just need to become that thing which Sin will learn to fear."  
  
O'aka's coughing abated. His spirit, long since diminished from the years of isolation, crumbled entirely. "Mahri. . . how?"  
  
"Zanarkand. I will go to Zanarkand. And I will learn the secret of Sin from Yunalesca herself. No living being in infallible: and if anybody knows how to kill Sin, she will." Mahri finished with a deep breath, cracking his knuckles loudly.  
  
O'aka lay back, eyes blurred and unfocused. "Zanarkand. . . pure suicide, my boy, you're no Summoner, you can't go on a pilgrimage. . ."  
  
Mahri grinned boyishly. "I know. And that is why I will succeed, grandpa. And with the power I acquire from defeating Sin, I shall crush my third, my final, target. . . one that I began raining vengeance down upon this very night. . ."  
  
O'aka was very close to tears now. The anguish this boy had put him through was unbearable. "Who is your third target, Mahri?"  
  
Mahri paused, collecting every trace of malice and hatred that made up the very essence of his being, and coalescing it all into one, insidious sentence.  
  
"Yevon. I will destroy all of Yevon, for the crime of persecuting my people, the Al Bhed."  
  
---  
  
"Holy shit, he's nuts."  
  
O'aka sighed deeply. "I wish, my boy. No, Mahri knew exactly what he was doing. He's not insane, he's just misguided: his adherence to 'an eye for an eye' pushed him to bring an end to Yevon, the faith that has restricted his people for so long."  
  
Max was dumbstruck. One man destroying an entire religion? How did one destroy ideals? It was impossible, so long as a single person managed to hold them at the end of the day. "That. . . that's impossible, isn't it?"  
  
O'aka nodded. "It is. I think he more wants to destroy the Temple system, really, the thing that dictates Al Bhed are less than human. He's not gonna hunt down every last Yevonite."  
  
Max, despite the fact that O'aka was Mahri's adopted grandfather, could not help but say, "He must be really, really stupid if he thinks he can do that."  
  
O'aka only shrugged. "I thought that at first, too. Now, though. . . I think I'm more afraid of the fact that he could succeed." He turned to Max, staring him down squarely. "You don't understand until you've seen Mahri's eyes. They dare you to try and stop him. Because he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you can't."  
  
---  
  
"Mahri, you haven't thought this through. You must be delusional-"  
  
"No!" The word shook the house like thunder, an emphatic denial that caused O'aka to involuntarily cower. "Those damned Yevonites, all they do is push us down and back, not giving us any space to grow, to live – "he stabbed a finger out the window "– to exist! We have as much right to live our lives peacefully! They're the fools, the ones who send out their Summoners to die just so the rest can have a temporary repose from Sin. They're the ones that blame the Al Bhed, who simply want to use machina to make their miserable existence just a little nicer, for bringing some unworldly, ungodly creature into existence. How dare they? Sin, an act of punishment for putting machina to use? How utterly ridiculous." He spat upon the floor and lowered his voice. "For their idiocy, for everything they've done, I will make them pay. The Yevon Temple, when I am finished, will lie crumpled at my feet. An eye for an eye."  
  
O'aka was speechless. His horror had reached a peak.  
  
Mahri turned. He gazed at the frail old man who he'd spooked beyond belief. The regret for doing so was instantly evident. "I'm sorry, grandpa. I don't want to do it, either. I. . . I just wanted a normal life, with a nice family. . . but they stripped me of that. I must make them pay."  
  
Passing by the bedside, he dropped a packet on the sheets. "This contains a nullifier for the barrier spell out there. Just sprinkle a bit of the dust on one and the devices they used will fail. There's also more than enough money to get you off this dead island: use it to buy yourself a nice apartment somewhere. Just... avoid any Temples, if you would." A rueful, sad smile stretched over Mahri's face. "Go, grandpa, and live your last days in the world. I hope they are far more pleasant than what you had to go through in this hell."  
  
Mahri strode out of the room. O'aka could not follow, rooted as he was in bed. Mahri's final words to the old man, quiet though they were, floated out of the den with a ghostly finality. "Thank you. I never said it, the spoiled little fool that I was, when last we were together. I truly valued your company." O'aka heard the heavy hefting of Mahri's gigantic scimitar onto his back, and he was gone.  
  
O'aka did not dare to move for over an hour, still frozen in time. The packet lay unattended by his side. Eventually, he began to weep.  
  
That night felt colder than any previous one, and as he cried, O'aka shivered abysmally, lamenting his failure that had destroyed Mahri the boy and created Mahri the beast.  
  
---  
  
O'aka, his tale told, fell back gently in the rocker. Max, looking down, realized that the old man had been right. It was a story he was not liable to forget any time soon.  
  
"So. . . if he gave you that powder, how come you haven't left yet?" Max inquired softly.  
  
O'aka waved a frail, bony hand in dismissal. "I don't see a point in it anymore. I'm. . . not long for this life, lad. I'm surprised even Mahri didn't see that. Even had they not trapped me inside here, I realized, a long time ago, that my place was here, in this secluded little corner of this damnable island. That's not to say I didn't try to escape, of course: for at least a month I tried. I tried to go under the barrier, by digging, only to find that I couldn't even get that close: it just kept tossing me back. I tried to swim out, around it, but that damnable wall just kept on stretching forever, and my energy ran out too quickly." He sighed. "I didn't even know it, but when Preacher and his goons showed up, he had a bunch of them pillaging my possessions. They took all my tools, wrecked my boat, even stole my money. . . real kind Yevonites, eh?" He bitterly grumbled at the thought, as though reliving the day in his mind.  
  
"But you could still at least – "  
  
"No, lad." O'aka hushed max with his suddenly powerful voice, weary though it was. "This place has been my home for over twenty years now. It'll be my grave, too. And soon. But. . ." –and at this point, O'aka looked infinitely older – "I feel it's my obligation to stop Mahri. I have to. It was. . . all my fault, that those twins wound up like that. . ."  
  
Max was appalled. "But you can't go chasing after that guy! You're too damned old-"  
  
"Exactly, my lad, exactly. I'm too old. I doubt I'd survive the boat ride back to the mainland now. I'm. . . done with life, frankly. I was too much of a coward to stop nourishing myself over those long years in here, but now, I'm ready to go. But I have to stop Mahri, somehow, before he gets himself killed because of my mistakes. That's why. . . Maximilian Letouchas, I need your strength. Please."  
  
Max was taken aback. "Wha?"  
  
"Please. Find Mahri. Persuade him not to do this for me. I, I can't do it. My old bones don't have the power to chase after him. But you're young and strong still, you can keep up with him. He's going to Zanarkand, you can chase him there-"  
  
"Whoa whoa whoa! Are you crazy? I can't do that, he'd kick my ass! Besides, I'm a reporter, not some mad adventurer. I do have a job to do. Once I get back to the mainland, I'm gonna tell this whole thing, and my paper'll be back in business, and I'll be in the limelight." He shook his hands manically. "I can't do it, I just can't. I'm sorry, but, I'll make sure that the authorities-"  
  
"You remind me of her."  
  
Max paused. "What?"  
  
"You. You're just like Celina. Full of energy and sass. Even your eyes, they might look completely different, but when a body takes a nice, long gander into them, you can see they're almost identical. I know, that if anybody can tell Mahri he's wrong, it's you, lad." O'aka's voice was full of satisfied conviction. "If I hadn't figured as much, I wouldn't have told you a single word of this. Of any of it."  
  
Max sniffed. "Man, that's not very fair."  
  
O'aka smiled kindly at that. "I know, lad. It isn't. But it's all I can rely on, because it's the ruddy truth. You don't have to do it, of course. I'm not going to force you, as if I could. But. . . please, don't refuse this final request from an old man."  
  
Lurching forward, he took Max's hands into his own. "Save my grandson. Before he destroys himself. Or worse." 


	6. Pretext for Tragedy, Chapter 6

"I'll. . . I'll. . . ergh, I'll think about it. Best I can promise, old guy." Max shuffled about the bedroom restlessly. Him, go gallivanting across the countryside looking for a crazy-ass killer like Mahri? Preposterous. He was just a damned writer, for crying out loud.  
  
O'aka, though a little disheartened, had to be satisfied with that much, and he was. "Thank you, lad. And even if you don't, well, at least get the word out. I don't... I don't want Mahri to kill anybody else, and if he's left to do things his own way, well, he might. I guess a newspaper is as good a way as any to spread the word." He coughed, gazing at Max as he paced. "You really are the spitting image of her, though. Just got heaps and heaps of energy."  
  
Max winced. "Argh. . . no more comparisons, alright? It's freakish." O'aka bowed his head in apology. Silently, he rose from his rocker, wandering off into his bedroom. Ack, I should be nicer, I guess. Max scratched his head. He had a pounding headache by this point.  
  
Moments later, O'aka returned bearing a rather large pouch in one hand and a long, thin, intricate sword in the other. It bore a large, gleaming ruby on either side of the pommel. Tossing the pouch to Max, O'aka withdrew the sword from its sheath: long and gleaming, with mythril-inlaid, serpentine dragons entwining around the blade in a vicious dance, it looked to be of inestimable value to Max. "Whoa, nice piece of hardware you got there, pops."  
  
O'aka, ignoring the slight at his age, nodded sagely. "It looks kind of delicate, really, but this sword couldn't be tougher. I used to have a swordsman friend who wielded it all the time before he retired and hoisted it off on me. Never got a ding in it the whole bloody time. That's not all, though, my lad."  
  
O'aka tapped the rubies on both sides. They began to glow, casting a harsh, bloody light upon the room.  
  
Then Max witnessed something that took his breath away.  
  
The blade seemed to suck the light, the very colour, out of the rubies. The reddish hue appeared as though a swirling liquid, slowly seeping into the sword – which had begun to fade in its own right, becoming somewhat translucent – and billowing out into huge, bubbling blotches that ran into of crevice the sword. It seemed as though it was filled with twisting lava. The two crystals – once rubies – now appeared to be flawless diamonds.  
  
What was most amazing, though, was that the twin dragons upon it had truly begun to dance – they twisted up and around the sides of the sword, flowing amongst the lava and roaring soundlessly. The effect in its entirety was mesmerizing.  
  
Max could feel the heat it cast off in the form of faint wisps of steam from across the room. He winced in shocked amazement. "Good lord, what is that thing?"  
  
O'aka grinned, his first real show of amusement. "This, my friend, is the Flame Talon. Just by tapping these two rubies, you can fill it with magical fire. Don't worry about touching it like that, either: the flames just increase the slicing power, or so I'm told. Feels pleasantly warm, frankly." He ran his fingers across the blade. "This baby kept me warm many a night. And. . . I want you to have it, lad." He handed the steaming blade to Max.  
  
Max was taken aback. "What? Me? Uh, I dunno if I should. . . why?"  
  
The old man smiled. "Consider it payment, my boy. For listening. Besides, if you do end up following Mahri, you'll need a weapon. Something light like this looks right up your alley."  
  
Max accepted the blade gravely, turning it over in his hands. It was indeed remarkably light: and Max watched in fascination as one of the dragons stopped to hiss mutely at him. The warmth that flowed from the blade felt oddly relaxing, and yet it kept him alert: the perfect combination of fluidity and caution rolled into one. He took a few practice swings. The motions felt perfectly natural, as though the sword were an extension of his arm. Steam flowed lazily in long, winding trails behind the blade, rising and vanishing against the ceiling.  
  
"Th. . . thanks. Geez, this thing is fabulous. I bet I could sell it off and live comfortably for the rest of my life."  
  
O'aka nodded. "You could. But if you do, and I find out, your ass is mine, lad." He tossed Max a wink that, for a moment, revealed in O'aka that formerly devilish merchant who had once plagued the markets with his crafty wheeling and dealing.  
  
Max couldn't help but laugh. "I won't, I won't." With a pair of synchronized taps, the living flame seeped back into the diamonds – thus creating a fresh new pair of rubies again - and the sword reassumed its old, gilded magnificence, the dragons static once more. Almost instantly it was cold to the touch.  
  
Max slipped it into the scabbard. "Hrm, this whole thing is a bit showy, don't you think? I'm liable to have it pilfered."  
  
O'aka shook his head. "You don't get out at all, do you, lad?"  
  
Max began with a slick line involving all the women around Luca who kept him constantly busy, but a cock-eyed glare from O'aka forced the young man into a lamely delivered "nah". O'aka nodded. "Didn't think so. Weapons that look kinda like these are all over Spira nowadays, or were when I was a part of the world. Most people wouldn't take a second look at that sword of yours, not unless they had a really keen eye for these sorts of things." He shrugged.  
  
"Really? Geez. But, I'm guessing this is stronger than most, right?" His eyes ran from end to end on the sword, absorbing very nuance of both pommel and sheath.  
  
"Oh yes. If my friend was true to his word, then it can split rocks – once you know how to swing it properly, of course. Otherwise it'll just take off your head."  
  
Although this should have elicited a laugh, Max was deadly serious. He nodded carefully. The sword seemed to have ensnared his mind, which was what ever sly O'aka had planned on: if only a little bit, he knew Max was edging towards an adventure that would put the blade to use. It was worth a shot, in an event: and O'aka felt good to be putting his skills to use for one last time.  
  
"The pouch has another little sack in it with the barrier nullifying gunk Mahri gave me. Use it to take that sucker down. I'm sure it'll work. There's some money in there, too: feel free to have it. I. . . don't much need it, anymore." The old man sniffed.  
  
Max turned slowly to O'aka, eyeing him suspiciously. "Anymore? What, you're not leaving here at all?"  
  
O'aka slowly shook his head. "No, my lad. . . like I said, these old bones of mine are done with this world, especially after the blossoming debacle that took place in the last week. . . now, in exchange for that, I need a favour from you, lad."  
  
"Uhh. . . sure, go ahead." The old man seemed to be shutting in front of Max: his face was sagging, his knees shaking, and those dimmed eyes had just about lost their lustre entirely.  
  
"Take that sword out again, lad. One last time." Max did as he was bade. O'aka, creaking his way over, carefully set it ablaze with twin taps from aged fingertips. The room was cast in an orangey light.  
  
As though he'd been awaiting this moment, O'aka drew a long, carefully folded piece of straw from his pocket. "This's been sitting around the old shack for a good fifteen years now, my boy, brought in from lord knows what. Probably an old crate I chopped up for wood long ago." He delicately touched the end of the straw to the very edge of the flame: it was instantly alit with a tiny, dancing flame.  
  
"A normal fire wouldn't suffice. Not for old O'aka. No, I wanted it to be special, right from this here sword. Thanks, lad. You can leave now." The old man pivoted on his heel, albeit slowly, and began a steady march into his bedroom, the straw burning brightly, its flame growing and consuming ever more steadily.  
  
Max's confusion was soon replaced with fear as the realization of what the old man was doing hit him. "No, O'aka, don't be stupid – "  
  
But it was too late. The fire, a far more powerful being of magical nature, had already set aflame the bed sheet on which it was laid. In the midst of it lay O'aka, the tiny tongues of bright orange already licking at his feet and slowly spreading upwards. He did not seem to have the power any longer to care about the pain, as all his energy had been directed into intoning one final message to his horrified companion.  
  
"I'm paying now for my failure, lad. Go, if you can, and rectify my mistakes. I'll be praying for your success." And then he was gone, swallowed whole by wild, devilish hues.  
  
---  
  
Max sat and watched the fire engulf the house of a man who he'd only known for about an hour, but who had charged the youthful reporter with a quest that seemed far beyond his experience. The sword, still active and flowing, was stabbed deep into the dirt, partially in frustration but mostly in honour of the old man. How it did O'aka justice, Max didn't know: it just felt right. The dragons contained within the blade seemed to watch mournfully as their former owner, now upon his blazing funeral bier, was consumed.  
  
Max watched the house steadily burn and fall into ruin for a very long time. His mind was lost in thoughts of its own. When the steady realization that night had fallen came to him, the fire was already out, having barely scorched the grass that stood around the now vanished cabin.  
  
"Seems like magic," Max whispered, and tapped his blade twice. Everything fell into darkness. Settling down with his head upon a rock – he could no more have cared whether he was seated upon a porcupine, so utterly fatigued as he was – he fell into a long, restless sleep, in which white haired youths with unwieldy scimitars lusted for his flesh. 


	7. Pretext for Tragedy, Chapter 7

There was a fizzling, crackling sound as magic clashed with magic. The air shimmered as tiny incandescent waves rippled out from the small, runic device that had been implanted into the dirt, which was currently attempting valiantly to hang onto its life. It was all for naught, however, and Mahri's powder did its job: the device, cracking almost anticlimactically, gave up the ghost, bringing down the entire barrier with it. The huge, green walls faded from existence almost immediately, leaving a clear view of the forest beyond.  
  
Max was instantly relieved. The idea that he might be trapped within the tiny square of land for a week while Alan's people tried to bring it down from the outside caused a tiny bit of panic. Especially now that O'aka had burnt his house down, and he along with it, thus depriving Max of any cover.  
  
One week, he thought abysmally. O'aka had been in there for. . . Max paused and calculated briefly, running the numbers through his head. 51 weeks in a year, right. . .? Around six hundred and sixty times more than I would have had to spend. . . geez, no wonder he wanted to die. Max turned briefly to gaze back at the now ruined house. Only one wall still managed to remain upright: the rest had come crumbling down in the middle of the night, scaring Max half to death as he napped. It was just a big pile of ash and rubble now.  
  
The young man sighed. He ran a hand up and down the sheath of his new sword, which had found a new home clipped to his belt. He still didn't feel as though he deserved it: after all, he really had no intention of following after Mahri on some mad crusade. But the old man had known as much, he supposed, so that dulled the feeling somewhat.  
  
The thought on the whole flashed a twinge of guilt through Max. But why should it? Mahri wasn't his concern. Despite what O'aka said, Max was not Celina. He held no responsibility to stop that guy. Hell, he'd probably just get himself killed if he even tried. Informing the public was enough, wasn't it. . .?  
  
But what if Yevon itself decided to take action? They'd be justified to, of course: but Mahri, well, he had just as much reason to be doing what he was, even if it was a tad bit extreme. Yevon had obviously hurt the teenager badly in his youth. And had they learned of what the people of Haliki had done to Mahri, Max had little reason to think that the Temple would apologize to an Al Bhed. It would hurt their credibility, and confuse the ever-dedicated masses as to what their position on the subject of Al Bhed and machina actually was.  
  
"There's just no easy way around this." Max announced his conclusion to the empty forest: it returned to him no reply. Much to his surprise – it allowed Max to gain a sort of perspective on how torn he actually was – he was much disappointed at this development, for he really could have used some kind of opinion.  
  
---  
  
"How the devil did you get out so fast, kid?" Alan was rather astounded at the emergence of Max into his camp. The young reporter had barely even stopped to gawk once again at the dead village, passing silently amongst the corpses as though they were nothing more than tufts of grass.  
  
Max shrugged listlessly. "Guess the barrier decided to die. Weird timing, huh?"  
  
Alan, naturally, was far from satisfied with this answer, but no amount of grilling managed to get any information out of Max. All the captain learned was that there was a burnt house in those newly revealed woods, and that Max had noticed an unsent flitting about the ruins – in other words, a Summoner was probably called for.  
  
"The old owner of that dump, I suppose. Who knows." Max's youthful face, still unable to hold in a lie, told Alan that he was being fed a pack of bullshit: especially considering Max had gone in unarmed and come out with a sword.  
  
"Found it out there. Figured I shouldn't spend the night unarmed. Guess it kinda grew on me."  
  
Alan received nothing more than this, and no protestations that he had probably put his neck on the chopping block to let Max get the story would yield the truth. "There's nothing else, man. Now, can I use the tent for a while? I'm dead."  
  
Alan gave Max a flat refusal. His courtesy in allowing the press to have a look at the scene had been met with insult. No way in Spira would he let Max impose on them again.  
  
This news met with little resistance: Max, seemingly, knew that his refusal to admit anything more than he had would result in this, and he simply sauntered out of the tent with his sword on one side and his suitcase on the other.  
  
Luckily for him, the bi-monthly boat would show up the next day: for the moment, however, Max was relegated to stick with the island – now strictly forbidden from entering the village by Alan and his men – and he spent another restless night under the stars, sleeping and yet utterly haunted by dreams.  
  
---  
  
"I'm paying now for my failure, lad. Go, if you can, and rectify my mistakes. I'll be praying for your success."  
  
These words remained in Max's mind the entire way back. Neither the poor food nor the abhorrent cabin he was given for his money on the small ferry managed to perturb the young man more than O'aka's parting lines.  
  
He had been decided before, sure: but that dedication to remaining neutral in the matter of Mahri's vengeance was very tenuous, and threatened often to collapse entirely. And it wasn't just that he felt obligated to stop Mahri, either. No, it was also the clarion call of adventure that had filled his head, a call that insisted the threat of death was nothing compared to the sheer freedom afforded to any happy wayfarer.  
  
Only this wasn't some pointless excursion: no, it was tailing a seemingly crazy youth – a youth who, somehow, had become supernaturally strong in the last thirteen years – and convincing him not to take on the greatest threat in the world, Sin, in combat. Not just a dumb adventure at all.  
  
But, his mind argued, perhaps that was the point: not many people got this kind of chance in their life. A true, bona fide quest, one dedicated to righting wrongs and keeping the peace. Max would be a hero if he succeeded, an inspiration: not to mention he would invariably become incredibly attractive to members of the opposite sex. Despite the moral prizes of undertaking such a journey, the matter, for him, always came back to those with chests far larger than his. Maybe he could have a girlfriend, for one. . .!  
  
Yes, but you won't manage a girlfriend if you're dead, stupid. Can't get laid in the grave, not unless the girl is. . . very disturbed.  
  
And thus the debate raged for days as Max washed about in his dumpy little boat, not particularly anxious about getting home anymore. He'd actually have to tell Donebert – and the world – what he'd found out.  
  
The limelight no longer looked attractive. It appeared to be very bloody, and painfully pessimistic.  
  
---  
  
The ship, taking a rather long route, docked at Bevelle, but Max had neither the time nor the inclination to revel in the metropolitan sights. Uncharacteristically quiet throughout his short stay, Max managed to rent a Chocobo from a small pen called 'Clasko's Queh' – whose owner, a stocky man bearing an orange, mushroom style haircut, assured Max that the Chocobo would head home as soon as the reporter was done with it, no matter how far away from Bevelle his destination was – and set out on the road. The Chocobo had been more expensive than Max had originally anticipated, but O'aka's present served to supplement the bit of money Max still had from the office. Luckily, the giant bird was well worth the money – tireless and swift, it had carried Max to the northern side of the Moonflow within three days, quite a feat considering the distance.  
  
Getting around the Moonflow was a bit trickier. The long, wide river, bearing no obvious way of getting around it – Shoopufs would not be brought in for another seventy-five years – was quite daunting, and it took Max an entire afternoon of constant searching before he could find a shallow across which his Chocobo could wade. The Chocobo, obviously not at all acclimated to any level of water, protested greatly, and the passage took much longer than Max would have liked. Even the fact that he did not particularly want to get back to Luca did little to deter his annoyance at the delay.  
  
The Moonflow's large population of Pyreflies did little to aid the situation, as well. Wispy and seemingly curious, they flew about the Chocobo in rhythmic circles, curving between its legs and doing their best to pester the bird. For its part, the Chocobo seemed duly terrified, and it even managed to pitch Max from its saddle at one point. The wet, bedraggled young man barely snatched up its reins before the Chocobo turned into a yellow streak, blazing off over the horizon.  
  
After happily breaking company with the Moonflow, his Chocobo once again a running machine that obeyed his commands, Max resumed his flight towards Luca. Throughout the journey, he had not deigned it necessary to speak to anybody he passed, issuing verbal commands only to his Chocobo when absolutely necessary. His mind was still too far gone, wrapped up in the matters of Mahri and his bizarre mission. Not to mention what he was going to do about it when reporting back to the Gazette headquarters.  
  
What the hell am I gonna do. . .?  
  
---  
  
Despite his Chocobo's antics in the Mooflow, Max experienced his only true predicament while travelling the Mi'ihen Highroad. Slowed to a mere trot, Max had been lazing about amongst the bright golden feathers of his mount's plumage, still mulling over his troubles, when a deep, throaty roar echoed loudly in the air. Somewhat daydreaming as he was, Max nearly tipped off the side of his Chocobo in surprise, and only a timely act of balance on its part kept him upright.  
  
The first thought that entered his mind was wonderment at his Chocobo keeping him aloft, and curiosity at how intelligent it was: these musings were, of course, woefully out of place, and another booming snarl convinced him of this bit of wisdom. Clutching at the reigns with a renewed vigil, Max checked in every direction, head darting back and forth as he searched out the threat.  
  
The Chocobo seemed to have caught on as to its positioning almost immediately – right behind them – and took off at a speedy gallop, screeching loudly as it went, talons kicking up puffs of dust and dirt amongst the long growing environs lining the road. Max, still searching frantically while attempting to put a stop to his rogue Chocobo, eventually began to notice two things: one, that there was a certain amount of booming erupting from just behind him, and two, the sun, which was currently floating implacably in the cloudless noon sky, had become eclipsed by a large, disfigured shadow.  
  
Finally, Max looked back. His stomach promptly collapsed from fear.  
  
---  
  
The so-labelled 'Chocobo-Eater' had changed greatly over the years. Indeed, they were not all of one particular species of Fiend: it would just happen that one type of Fiend or another would find the taste of the big birds particularly tempting, and take up residence. There seemed to be a sort of ruling dynamic amongst the denizens of the road, in which only the strongest, biggest Fiend could pick off the Chocobos, and the rest were relegated to keeping their hands or claws off. Indeed, it took very big, very fast Fiends to keep up with Chocobos, as their incredible leg muscles and penchant for escaping from even the smallest of perceived threats with blinding quickness made catching one decidedly difficult for the average Fiend.  
  
Thus, it took a greater-than-average creature to do the job. Just such a Fiend was currently on the tail of Max and his Chocobo.  
  
It was a gigantic, thickly built monster, with mottled green skin and humongous grasping tentacles. Venomous ooze could be exuding from every pore on its body with a disgusting regularity, thus protecting the monster from any planned attacks, only excluding those delivered from a far range. Any who dared to attack at a short range – unless properly equipped, of course – would quickly find themselves covered in the thick, gooey mucus. It would induce a state of paralysis in short order, allowing the Fiend to eat at its own leisure. And even if any would-be assaulter got close, its tentacles would ward them off: long, vicious tendrils, they lashed the air with loud cracks, keeping the monster well defended. They also served well to snag any fleeing Chocobos, thereby delivering the hapless bird up into its maw: a huge, gleaming skull, with a lower jaw bisected not once but twice, creating two swinging outer pieces and a third, central, jagged platform used to impale the Chocobo in place. It's upper jaw, lined with gruesome stalactites for teeth, would perform the killing blow. Curving horns jutted out the back of its head, giving the impression of an insect mated with a goat. No eyes were visible within the inky blackness of its hollows.  
  
All of this, combined with its height – a good seven metres – managed to instil in Max the relatively simple thought that he was about to die. And, yet, he could not help but attempt valiantly to hang onto his life, and he spurred the Chocobo on wildly, swinging the reigns and screaming at the bird to move faster, for the love of Yevon.  
  
---  
  
The burly man in the cloak, just a little way up the path and obscured by the tall grasses, could not help but be annoyed by the amount of racket that was heading his way. He'd been trying to sleep, after all: how could one be disturbed from a peaceful nap and not be a little irked? Especially this man, who, coated in dark, stained Fiend's blood from three days of constant travelling and battling as he was, possessed little in the way of a good mood?  
  
"Sounds like a Chocobo mating with a Shoopuf, for shit's sake." 


	8. Pretext for Tragedy, Chapter 8

Max wasn't sure what was happening, really. All that ran through his head was the oft-repeated phrase, "I'm gonna die". While monotonous, he could not help but think it: after all, a huge, ghoulish, drooling source of death currently stood a scant few metres away, chomping away on his Chocobo. It screeched in pain – oh, I'm not gonna look at that anymore, not gonna look – and a few small flecks of blood managed to escape the thing's jaws and splatter daintily across the back of Max's cowering head. Here he was, the great hero in the making, with his face shoved deep into the grass while his ride met with an untimely fate.  
  
He couldn't have even run: his ankle, twisted from a very bad fall, defied any form of locomotion. Max wasn't prepared mentally to run anyway. He just felt like hiding until either the monster went away, satiated, or came back to pick him off as well. The former would have been nice, of course, but at this point, anything was preferable to listening to such grisly crunching.  
  
What was he thinking, going out on a story? His boss had been right. Donebert had suspected the kid would do something boneheaded like this. Max knew it. Why else would he keep Max back? Max, obviously, sucked at his job. He was no reporter: hell, he probably didn't even cut it as a desk jockey. Stupid, stupid, stupid.  
  
Max felt like crying at that moment, lamenting his failures in life, but no tears fell. The sickening slurps and crunches he could hear behind him prevented any soulful actions on his part.  
  
Mercifully, perhaps, he was kept from enduring them any longer, as a single tentacle flew out from behind, ready to snap him up: and, gazing at it but once, Max knew he was about to die, that he was ready to die, that he didn't care anymore if he died or not, he just wanted it to be over, and a part of him was completely surprised at all that, for he had never struck himself as the suicidal type. He'd thought he'd been pretty happy, all things considered.  
  
"Guess not," the youth mumbled, and clenched his eyes firmly tight again, the tentacle whipping towards his chest with a loud crack.  
  
---  
  
Fate, naturally, was not ready for Maximilian Letouchas to enter the Farplane. So it interjected into his situation a new factor, one that would come back to revisit Max time and again before the end of it all.  
  
---  
  
A heavily gauntleted hand – far larger than anything Max had ever seen on a human before, so he figured it could not be a human – grabbed the tip of the tentacle mere seconds before it whipped around Max. Another hand almost casually heaved Max out of the way, sending him sprawling but not seriously hurting the frightened reporter.  
  
Max regained a face-up posture, sitting in the dirt, more than a little stupefied. Shouldn't he have been dead about now? But then, gazing at his saviour, he decided, regardless of how vicious the monster may have looked, that death would have to wait for another day.  
  
He was an absolutely enormous man – at least seven feet tall – and completely built out of muscle. Max doubted if he could have located even the slightest modicum of fat on his body. Not seeming to care about decorum, the man wore no shirt, and Max could see networks of scars running across his considerable chest, both small and large. At his side was slung a curious item: it appeared to be the handle of an enormous, two-handed sword, yet it bore no blade. Max didn't bother to ponder over it. Over his head was draped a long, flowing brown hood, but Max could see his face well enough: a coarse, white beard, no smile to speak of, and mismatched eyes – one was a normal, pale brown, while the other was disfigured and red. It looked as though somebody had passed a sword across it at one point and it had never recovered. The skin around it was swollen and puffy.  
  
That which stood out the most on this already memorable man, however, was his arms. They were thickly built, like the rest of him, and at least one of them bore a tattoo of a Marlboro: however, once one ventured a little further south of the elbow, things changed. Both forearms were covered in gigantic, steel gauntlets, decorated in various opulent jewels and glowing a pale green in the sunlight. They seemed to radiate pure power, and Max knew, even with his lack of field experience, that they probably contained a lot of magic in them.  
  
His hypothesis was about to be verified. The man, giving Max only a cursory glance, took a quick, sweeping tug on the tentacle he held, and it almost immediately gave way. Releasing his grip on the tip of it, the tentacle, given considerable momentum from what seemed to be only a slight motion, went sailing through the air: the man did not seem to care that poison rained down upon him as it passed overhead, though Max himself immediately took cover.  
  
The Fiend squealed – a high-pitched, incredulous noise – and, without stopping to gauge its wound, charged straight at the man. Its remaining tentacles stretched out to embrace him.  
  
What the man did next, however, managed to completely nonplus his opponent, for the creature had never witnessed such behaviour from humans before: he ran directly at it, unarmed, save for his considerable strength. Its steps faltered somewhat, not expecting such a bold move – and before it could do anything, he was upon it.  
  
"Your skull'll make some fine material, moron." These words were called out into the cool breeze only seconds before the man leapt, propelled by mountainous legs up and over the creature's head and onto its back. The fiend hesitated, still confused: and that moment sounded its death knell.  
  
Gripping one of the long, spiralling horns, the man retrieved his sword handle and planted its long, vacant guard against the smooth centre of the monster's skull. A white, blazing light seemed to erupt from the sword, and though max could hardly see it at first, as the man began to withdraw his bladeless sword he saw that it now had a blade: it was as though he had pulled it out from the creature itself, and in this estimation, Max was not far off from the truth. Long, white, and clearly textured, the sword looked rather like the skull of the creature itself, bearing a rather knobbly surface and a viciously curved appearance. The blade managed to fit, at the base, across the entire guard, a guard that looked to Max to be about a foot in length.  
  
Needless to say, when the tip emerged from the creature and the gleaming light abated, the sword was absolutely enormous, and appeared to Max to be utterly impracticable. Nobody could lift a sword that heavy, let alone swing it.  
  
Yet the man seemed to do just that, and with absolutely no difficulty. With a deft back flip had catapulted himself off of the creature's back, mere seconds before its tentacles slid up around its skull in search of a target. Noticing the lack of pressure on its back, it turned, smashing aside weeds and grass, bringing those deadly, thick whips back to bear on its newest threat. The man, distancing himself somewhat from the fiend, readied his weapon, noting grimly that the monster still had smatters of blood and a great deal of golden wings nestled amongst the crevices of its tri-pronged mouth.  
  
"Nasty bastard, this one." His comment was rather nonchalant, but his expression showed that it was anything but. He was ready to take it on in a serious fight.  
  
It had still not occurred to Max that he should help, nor that he might search out an antidote for the man: after all, he was coated in the things' venom. Instead, he remained seated, watching in awe. Who the hell was this guy, that he could lift that sword? It looked like something a machina three times his size might wield.  
  
The monster, now fully outraged, made towards him in a heavy gallop, tendrils extended once again to grasp and crush.  
  
The man only grinned. "Sorry, beautiful, but this time I'm prepared." With a sudden dash he flew amidst the jungle of tentacles, bringing his sword around his huge, sweeping arcs: and after having only suffered three minor grazes, the man had managed to do away with the majority of its weaponry, all of which flopped about in the field, their lingering poison quickly killing off plant life.  
  
The monster stopped caring about losing tentacles. Instead, it intended to utterly crush the life out of this little enemy with its enormous legs. It pounded towards the warrior – who had just finished the last of his sword strokes – vacant eyes lusting for his blood.  
  
It would never get the chance, for two reasons: one, its tentacles had not provided enough of a challenge to hinder the man for long, and two, the creature, despite its size, simply was not fast enough. Even a creature that could track down Chocobos was not enough to take on this man. Without skipping a beat, the man used his last stroke against the still-falling tentacles to spin, pivoting quickly and bringing the blade back to bear on the beast within scant seconds. The sword sliced deeply, cutting into the monster's belly.  
  
It came to a sliding stop – or at least attempted to – and the man, knowing what was to come, simply abandoned his sword and ducked underneath the Fiend, rolling between its buckling legs.  
  
The monster slid for several metres before collapsing completely. Its guts began to pour out in gallons before, mercifully, the whole of it vanished in a gentle swirl, and the unsent that made up its structure scattered off into the sky.  
  
Max was, needless to say, rather aghast. His eyes were caught on the spot it had died, and refused to budge.  
  
Eventually, the man entered his field of vision. He was dripping in green blood and roiling venom. It did not seem to bother him at all. Taking a long breath, he retrieved his curious sword – which, much to Max's confusion, slowly reverted back to a mere guard and pommel, the blade melting away into nothingness – and peered over at Max.  
  
"Hoy!"  
  
This first word did not register with Max.  
  
"I said, hoy!"  
  
These next ones did.  
  
"Uh. . . uh. . . yeah?"  
  
"You okay, kid?"  
  
Max, checking the man over, only nodded mutely.  
  
The man seemed satisfied with that. "Good. Just don't ride a damned Chocobo when you're on this road anymore: it draws these goddamn super- Fiend bastards to you like moths to a flame." He shook his head slowly, almost mournfully. "I was having such a nice nap, too."  
  
Without another word, the man was off.  
  
It was not until Max saw the man's back slowly recede over the next hill when he finally rose from his awkward positioning and took off at a manic pace towards his saviour.  
  
Note: Once you know what you're doing, battles are, like, uber-fun to write. I'd never noticed before. I suggest you all try it. 


End file.
